an inside thing (don't worry about it)
by blueinkedbones
Summary: "Stiles. Just hit me."
1. actually there would be some touching

"Stiles," Derek says. "Just hit me."

Stiles hits him, just once, catches him on the lip and stares at it, stares at him, at the wide-open look on his face, at his chest rising softly, falling softly, his mouth already healing, how was Stiles ever scared of him? Derek with his arms at his sides, straight-spined, so fucking steady, waiting for Stiles to beat the crap out of him, and Stiles—

Stiles doesn't.

Stiles reaches up, careful, brushes the still-wet blood from Derek's lip.

The moment freezes, all sound drops out, all air, all gravity, and Stiles—

* * *

"I'm not doing that," Jeff says.

"I think it could be a really sweet scene," Dylan says. His whole left side is, like, _soaking up_ Tyler's dejection. He doesn't even have to turn around to feel it. It _sucks_.

"Derek's already in a relationship," Jeff says.

"Oh, is that what that is?" Tyler says.

"It doesn't have to be—weird, or whatever," Dylan reasons. "It can just be this really, like, sweet, brotherly—"

"Just this nice, touching moment," Tyler says.

"I'll think about it," Jeff says.

* * *

"This is all your fault," Stiles says, and means it, doesn't realize how sharp and hot the rage is until he says it, lump lodged high in his throat, eyes stinging, this was the one thing, the one thing that Stiles swore would never happen, this is his _father._ "You invited her into our lives, you—"

"I know," Derek says, he sounds sorry, he should be fucking sorry, what he fucking—

"I'm sorry," Derek says, and Stiles can't breathe, and the first punch comes like a gasp

and the others like hyperventilating, Stiles' arms moving too quickly, fists landing too hard, and Derek isn't fighting back, why isn't he fucking _fighting back?_ Stiles' eyes are burning and his heartbeat is thundering in his ears and his whole body is too small and he's somewhere outside it and he needs—

He needs Derek to hit him so hard he's forced back inside himself, needs a blow thumping between his ribs like a second heartbeat, needs his cheek smarting, his lip raw and bleeding, his mouth chafing, he needs—

He's still hitting Derek when their mouths smash together, his fists still swinging like pendulums, but it sinks in as he drags his head back, breathes cool clear air that's been missing for too long. Derek's mouth tastes like metal and mint and salt, the world's incessant static hum settles under Stiles' skin, panic and fury cooling into purpose, focus, _clarity,_ and Stiles pulls back, looks at him—

"Holy shit," the director says, and the whole scene shatters into Tyler and Dylan, still catching their breath, still just staring.

"Whoa," Dylan says.

"Whoa," Tyler echoes.

They both step back at once, break at once, try to throw it off at once, calm down.

"Okay, let's reset and go again," the director says, and neither of them says, _What if you use that take?_ but they're both thinking it.

The scene doesn't make it in.

* * *

AN: no hobriens in this fic resembling actual hobriens are representative of actual hobriens. probably.


	2. a really sweet moment

Tyler takes Dylan home for his mom's birthday. His family loves Dylan, so Tyler's not worried.

Okay, maybe he's a little bit worried.

Mostly Dylan's worried, because he's Dylan.

Also because he's Dylan, he's trying to hide the nerves under jokes, and with every quip Tyler thinks of how nervous Dylan actually is because he_ wants Tyler's family to like him_, and then how Tyler's family might not like him, if—and then how Dylan's face will _look_ if they don't like him, how he'll probably make a bunch of nervous jokes and push his fingers through his hair and laugh a lot until his voice falters and his eyes get all bright—and Tyler's getting so tense imagining it that his shoulders are practically Derek-tight.

He takes a deep breath, presses Dylan closer to him in a one-armed hug, and kisses his jaw. "It'll be fine. They love you."

"You know, that's a lot more convincing when your jaw isn't clenched like you're about to wolf out, dude," Dylan says, but he leans into Tyler's side, looking noticeably calmer.

"Wolf out, really."

"Yeah, when you're, like, annoyed, that muscle in your neck does this thing where—" He breaks off, laughing. "It sounds so weird that I notice this stuff. You'd think I watch you, like, obsessively."

Tyler frowns, brow creased in mock-hurt. "You don't watch me obsessively?"

Dylan laughs again, warm and open, rolling through his whole body, and Tyler smirks at him, then breaks into laughter himself. Warmth rises in him, and he kisses Dylan again, because he can, because he's happy, because Dylan makes him really, really happy. His family'll see that, they'll understand, everything will be fine.

* * *

Everything is fine.

They're eating dinner, everyone's happy, Dylan and Tanner talking about the Mets, Tyler talking to his dad about how he's been doing, glancing back at Dylan every so often, when his dad says, "So how's Brittany doing?"

Dylan drops his fork and dives under the table to retrieve it.

"She's, ah, she's doing—We're not together anymore, Dad," Tyler says. He can feel his ears flaming.

"She's a good girl," Dad says. "A good woman."

"Yeah, she is," Tyler agrees, amicable but bracing.

"You don't find many of those in that business, you know."

Tyler can feel his neck tensing. "I know, Dad."

"Yeah, she's seriously like the sweetest person I know," Dylan cuts in. Tyler looks at him. "Like the first time I met her, there was this party, right, and there was this guy there, and he was _wasted_. like completely plastered. and he's like staggering around, looking for his keys or something, you know. so he sees me, right, and immediately he's like, "Wolf!" and I'm like 'Oh, I wasn't expecting you to know my show, hi,' you know. but he's not even looking at me, he was looking at Tyler, Tyler Posey, and he's like, 'Yo, wolf!' and Posey is like, 'Yeah! Hey dude!' and kind of waves at him, and the dude like tries to wave back, I think, but he's so gone he pretty much falls over." Dylan laughs. "He's like 6'2, like two hundred pounds, and Brittany's like 5'3, maybe 110 _soaking wet_, but she's there, you know, _catches_ him. takes his keys—" Dylan shakes his head, quiets. "It was just this nice, this funny little moment. I don't know. I thought it was cool."

"It was," Tyler says, though he remembers approximately none of this. "It was awesome."

Dylan's prodding his chicken gingerly with his fork, eyes low, mouth a small soft oval of quiet inner self-flagellation. Tyler's stomach drops.

"It _was_," he says again. He pats Dylan's arm a couple of times, lines his left leg with Dylan's right under the table.

"Yeah," Dylan says, making an effort to perk up. He manages a grin for maybe a second before it falters into something worse. The leg not hooked on Tyler's rattles under the table, sets off vibrations in the cutlery.

"There you go," Dad says. "You've known her a long time, this isn't some Hollywood act. Maybe you should think—"

"We're friends," Tyler says. "It's not—She's seeing somebody."

"Sounds like a smart guy, if you ask me," Dad says pointedly.

"And so am I," Tyler says, barely biting back his irritation. Dylan's leg goes still.

"You are?" Mom says. "Oh, honey. That's great. Do we know her?"

"You are?" Tanner asks, frowning. "Since when?"

"Since—For a while," Tyler says, already regretting mentioning it. He knows his family, they'll pick this apart like he's under oath. "Don't worry about it."

"How long have you and Brittany been—"

"A long time," Tyler says. "We're friends, Dad. anything else—We're just friends."

"Because if you were seeing some other girl behind—"

"I wasn't!"

"I'm glad to hear it," Dad says. "Because that's not how I raised you."

"I know," Tyler says.

"Is it someone from work?" Mom asks.

Tyler looks at her.

"It would make sense," she says. "You've been so busy lately."

"Yeah, it's someone from work," Dylan says abruptly. The whole table turns to him.

"So you know her," Dad says. "What's she like?"

"Is she hot?" Tanner asks.

"Really?" Tyler says.

"Oh yeah, so gorgeous," Dylan says. "Really sweet, too. And smart. Like incredibly intelligent."

"You're dating Holland!" Mom says triumphantly.

"You're dating _Holland_?" Tanner says.

"I'm not dating Holland," Tyler says. Dylan looks like he's seriously contemplating suicide by dining implement. Mom looks like she doesn't believe him. "I'm not!"

"I always thought you'd give it another try," Mom says. "I mean, you work together now. What are the odds?"

"What _are_ the odds?" Dylan agrees, too brightly.

Tyler smiles stiffly. "That's really funny."

"Yeah, she's also got an amazing sense of humor," Dylan says.

"You can talk to us, honey," Mom says. "So it's been a while, huh? That sounds serious. What's she like?"

"Yeah, Ty," Dylan says, the worst shit-eating grin on his face. "What's she like?"

"It's Dylan," Tyler says, just a little too loudly. "It's Dylan, alright? I'm seeing Dylan."

"You work with a girl named Dylan?" Tanner says. "What is this, three?"

Tyler stares at him.

"You can't seriously be that stupid," he says. "Dylan? O'Brien? This guy next to me." He jerks a thumb in Dylan's direction.

"Aww, you're so sweet to me, baby," Dylan simpers. Tyler smiles as wide as he can.

"Dude, you are the worst liar," Tanner says.

"Your dad doesn't mean to pressure you about your relationships," Mom says.

"Of course not," Tyler says.

"He just has a lot of respect for Brittany. We all do."

"Great!" Tyler says. His jaw actually aches from smiling so stiffly for such an extended period of time. "Why don't you date her? All of you. Together. Just leave me out of it."

"Whoa, hey," Dylan says, touching the back of Tyler's neck.

Tyler closes his eyes, lets out a heavy breath. "I'm sorry," he says.

"No, I was being a dick," Dylan says. He goes pink. "Uh. A really, you know, annoying—" he starts translating, like Tyler's family is going to excommunicate him or something.

"You weren't," Tyler interrupts.

"Wait," Dad says. "Are you serious? The two of you are—together?"

"Yeah," Tyler says. He's done pretending. It's fine, everything's fine. What's the worst thing that could happen?

He takes Dylan's hand, pretends his isn't shaking.

"Well that explains it," Dad says, and tells Dylan, "That was a pretty funny bit you did, with the girlfriend. What was it, 'really sweet and incredibly—'"

"Intelligent, yeah," Dylan says, grinning nervously.

"'Intelligent,'" Dad repeats. "Genius."

Tyler stares at him.

"Do _your_ parents know?" Mom asks Dylan.

He swallows. "Uh. Yeah? Yeah, my mom kind of—figured it out. And then I just told my dad, like, once it was real, y'know? But I knew they'd be supportive, so—"

"So are we," Mom says firmly. "You know we'll love whoever you love, Tyler. Don't you?"

"Of course," Tyler says, just a little too late, and then it's too late. Mom looks like he hit her or something, like—

"And you know we love Dylan," Dad says.

"Yeah," Tyler says, kind of lightheaded with a dizzying combination of relief and gut-twisting guilt for worrying, or for making it seem like he thought, like he thinks— "Yeah, yeah, no, I know—"

"How long have you been worrying about this?" Dad asks.

Tyler shrugs, tries to back up, to take it back, to explain. "I wasn't—" God, he sounds like an idiot. "Brittany, I just mean, you really, _really_ like Brittany—"

"She's a nice girl," Dad says. "You've been friends for a long time._ I thought she made you happy_," he clarifies as Tyler starts to tense up again. "I just want you to be happy."

"Are you happy?" Mom asks.

"Are you kidding?" Tanner asks. "Have you seen him around this guy? He _giggles_."

"Shut up, Tanner," Tyler says, ears heating up. "Five minutes ago I was a bad liar."

"You're the worst liar," Tanner agrees. "In hindsight, it's kind of blindingly obvious."

"I didn't think it was obvious," Dylan offers.

Tyler turns to him. "You didn't?"

"Dude, no way! You're always smiling, you're always nice, you're always, like, _insanely_ attractive, I had no idea if it was all in my head or not."

Tyler's entire face is on fire, but he's having trouble caring.

"Oh."

"Yeah, 'Oh,'" Dylan says. "I'm making an a—a giant fool of myself, like constantly mentioning how hot you are, you're just like, 'Thanks, man,' I felt like a, y'know, like this awkward spastic weirdo half the time."

Tyler's grinning now, and his jaw doesn't hurt at all. "I thought you were playing around. Like that was just this running joke, it didn't mean—"

"Have you ever heard me make those jokes about anyone else?" Dylan laughs. "Like, ever? Since you've known me?"

"Oh," Tyler says again, after a couple seconds' consideration.

Dylan laughs. "We're both idiots."

"We're both_ something_," Tyler agrees, laughing, and then remembers—"Oh god, Mom, it's your birthday, I—"

"It's okay," Mom says. "I shouldn't have assumed."

That's not fair, Tyler knows. Mom can't resist a good challenge. It was his fault for being cryptic, and Dylan's hints must have made the answer sound obvious.

"No, I—" he says instead, because sometimes he just completely loses contact with his mouth, or his brain. Some wire getting crossed somewhere.

"I'm glad you brought Dylan home anyway, even if you were nervous." Mom smiles at Dylan like she has to prove something, like Tyler doesn't already know she loves him. Suddenly, Tyler just needs everyone to drop this. Bring Brittany up again, even, he doesn't care. He nods agreeably, smiles at her, tries not to completely shrug out of his skin.

Dylan pats Tyler on the back, keeps his hand there, contact heat seeping through Tyler's t-shirt. Tyler reaches back without looking, plants his palm against Dylan's chest.

Dylan's frantic vibrating leg goes still again.

Tyler smiles down at nothing.

"I'll go get the cake," Tanner says.

* * *

AN especially for flamer anons: nothin real here, so try not to lose your mind. consider it an au-fun for all the family and completely fictional.


	3. it's never going to be like that again

They break up mid-September; it just makes sense. It's not like this was ever sustainable, like it was ever even a real option. It was stupid, Dylan was stupid thinking it could work.

They don't see each other for a while, they stop texting. It's fine. This is being an adult, Dyl, this is real life. Suck it up and move on.

Tyler certainly seems to have. The way Ian goes on about it, he's practically got a different girl every night. And whatever. Whatever. He can do what he wants, sleep with whoever he wants. It's none of Dylan's business.

It wasn't ever, like, a serious option. Not really. It was a joke, this funny joke, it was bound to blow up in their faces eventually, become weird and awkward and—

But that's the thing. that's the thing.

It didn't.

* * *

Season four is a little less intense than season three, but maybe that's just the difference between twelve and twenty-four plus a movie. There are a lot more scenes with Posey this time, there's a lot more comedy. Somehow Dylan manages to fuck up his knee doing six takes of a simple running scene, but it's fine. He doesn't destroy any props, he's not bleeding, he'll walk it off eventually. The last take was good, that's all that matters, he doesn't have to do it again.

He doesn't text Tyler to bitch about it, just scans the sides for the next scene and hobbles off to his trailer when he sees it's a chunk of Malia stuff. There's a scene with Holland he should probably run through with her at least once, some great stuff with Posey tomorrow.

There's nothing with Tyler. There's never anything with Tyler. He's shooting with JR, with Ian, with Jill; as far as Dylan goes, they might as well be on different shows.

It's—fine. It's whatever. This is the job, it's a job. It's not supposed to be, like, some kind of wish-granting, choose your own adventure shit. You're not getting paid crazy amounts of money to screw around with your was-this-ever-even-really-a-thing ex, even if that's what like the loudest, most dedicated section of fans want to see.

But dedicated doesn't mean ratings, apparently, or—whatever, it's whatever. Someone else is writing the show, Dylan's just doing his bit and trying not to suck at it or mortally wound himself. He can't control what he can't control. And he can't control Tyler, make him talk, so—so fine. All Dylan can do is his job, so he does his job.

He can see girls too, sleep around, do whatever.

Mostly he stays in his trailer until someone drags him out.

* * *

Mom wants to talk. Dylan has no idea what to say to her, about any of it. It just kind of disappeared, like an optical illusion. Blink and suddenly the picture is so obviously warped you must have been blind not to see it.

"He seemed to really like you," Mom says.

"Guess he's a better actor than you thought," Dylan says. Mom's face pinches, and Dylan backtracks. "I just—Can we just—not talk about this? How are you? How's Dad?"

Mom's fine. Dad's fine. Everything's just awesome.

* * *

By the time he and Tyler actually have a scene, Dylan's so used to the grind he barely notices it. And then he's on set, and there he is, stupidly attractive just talking to Sprayberry, and Dylan can do this. He can be a normal human being for a couple of hours, or do an approximate imitation of one.

"Dylan," Tyler says, his voice all warm and grinning and exactly like nothing has changed.

"Yo," Dylan says, raising a couple of fingers in a vague wave before shoving them through his hair. "And lil' Dyl. Hey, buddy!"

"Hey!" Sprayberry says. His eyes still have that bright, shiny, _this is the most fun I've ever had _sheen. It's kind of nauseating, in a sweet way. "Um, I was just saying, if I like, injure Tyler for real—"

"They didn't tell you? The healing's not an effect," Dylan says. "Regular Hoech superpower." He slaps Tyler on the back, grins. "So go nuts."

"Yeah," Sprayberry says, looking between them like he's watching something Dylan can't see. Dylan drops his hand from Tyler's side, slides closer to Sprayberry. This time even he catches the way Tyler frowns for a second before his mouth hitches into a smile again.

"So the scene," Dylan says.

"The scene," Tyler says agreeably. "Seems pretty straightforward."

"Yep," Dylan says.

"How've you been?" Tyler asks, instead of a question Dylan can actually answer, like the meaning of life, or what came before the Big Bang.

"Great," Dylan lies. "So great. I can actually sleep most days now, so, you know, that's a plus."

Tyler's brow creases. "You weren't sleeping?"

"That's the job," Dylan says. "Or something. I got so swamped with work I'm amazed my bed hasn't left me for someone else."

It comes out weird and pointed, like some kind of accusation, which—Dylan did not want to do that at all. He laughs awkwardly, laughs harder. "Yeah, I don't even know. I think I like, permanently scrambled my brain with all the physical stuff for the movie."

_The movie. _Like it's so big Dylan doesn't even have to name it. _Must be my movie, because it sure as hell isn't your movie._ He sounds like a jackass.

"I bet it'll look awesome, though," Tyler says.

"Hope so," Dylan says. "It's getting pushed forward like a year so they can edit in my eightpack, so it better be worth it."

"That's not natural?" Tyler asks, raising an eyebrow. "I've been betrayed by the internet."

"Photoshop," Dylan agrees. "Just last week it had my mom convinced my eyes were gold."

"They are kind of golden," Tyler says, and—and now he's looking right into Dylan's eyes. Chances of survival are just freefalling to hell.

"Nope," Dylan says, shaking his head. "Just brown."

"Agree to disagree," Tyler says amicably.

"Shit brown," Dylan says.

"Beer bottle," Tyler says.

Dylan laughs. "Is that better?"

"Like, a brown one," Tyler says, ears pinking. "Obviously."

"So—_brown_," Dylan says, spreading his hands wide. "So, I win."

"But the light bouncing off the glass makes it kind of—" Tyler shakes his head. "Forget it."

"I think they look kind of hazel," Sprayberry offers.

"Neat-o," Dylan says.

* * *

Tyler never actually technically ended it. He just pulled away, and away, and away, until they were just texting about work, about the _weather _or something. It tapered off too easily, and then Dylan started scrolling through their texts and realized Tyler hadn't actually written a single thing that couldn't have been written by Posey or Holland in months. And when he finally had some free time, finally had a chance to see Tyler in person, they ate a bunch of pizza and played Mariocart like it was open-heart surgery, and when Dylan dumped the controller in his lap and kissed him, Tyler pulled away and said, "I, uh, maybe we shouldn't—"

And Dylan said, "No, yeah, sure."

So they're not.

And it's fine.

It's completely fucking fine.


End file.
